


For Good

by sistercacao



Category: Gundam Wing
Genre: Almost a pwp, M/M, Sappy, Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-31
Updated: 2018-01-31
Packaged: 2019-03-11 19:37:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13531137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sistercacao/pseuds/sistercacao
Summary: Trowa finds a way to convey what he needs to tell Quatre, but can't find the words to say.





	For Good

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to LJ in 2013. I've never written a 3x4 lemon before this I think? Insane. Also pretty sure I've never _read_ a 3x4 fic this smutty, either.
> 
> _Everything_ about this fic, from the tense to the writing style, is heavily influenced by [Hollycomb's](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hollycomb) Toy Story 3 fanfiction, so I'm going to link her page here and recommend everyone who enjoys this go read that fic _right now_.

Trowa can't help but feel like an intruder whenever he slips the keycard through the lock on the door, even though he was  _given_  this keycard; he's  _supposed_  to use it on this door. He has been expressly told to drop by whenever he's on colony, without calling for permission first-- he supposes it's because it feels more intimate this way, just barging in like he owns the damn place-- and he has the distinct feeling the security in the building has been told the same, because he used to get looks when he came to visit and he very noticably doesn't anymore. He isn't sure how that makes him feel. He managed his way into plenty of places with a higher security profile than this during his terror days, but he was always in costume, always pretending to be someone who belonged there. Now, he's just himself, striding down the halls of this lavish apartment complex like he isn't even aware how terribly out of place he is. Hell, maybe he's still pretending after all.  
  
Despite that strange sense of trespass, the unlock sequence engages on the door with a little green flash, and he's inside. The foyer is dark. Trowa places his bags silently at the door, slips out of his shoes. He's going to make it to the bedroom all right, but that is where his decorum will end, so he might as well get some of the preliminary undressing out of the way. Thinking about this, he removes his jacket and the contents of his pants' pockets, laying them on the spotless floor beside his bags. Once again, he feels that nagging in the back of his mind--  _you're much too casual here, this isn't your house_ \-- and reminds himself that he has a fucking key, he can stand to take off his fucking coat.  
  
He walks through the hall, passing the guest bedroom, the first dining room and bath, and a small den, though small here is only in relation to the rest of the palatial apartment. Trowa has the sudden urge to enter it, check the glass cabinet there to see if his flute still resides in it, that it hasn't been tossed. But that's crazy. Of course it's there. There's just something about the time in between visits that seems threatening to him, like a thousand years will pass and it will only feel like a month, like he'll show up one day to find that all the traces of him in this apartment have been erased, cleaned up, forgotten. He forces himself out of the doorway.  
  
The entire place is dark, and for good reason; it's barely five o'clock in the morning. Trowa pads down the hardwood hall, fighting the urge to sprint to the bedroom, because it's been a long time, too long, and he's desperate for it, for him. He starts, pathetically, to get hard even before he steps through the door, catches sight of the massive bed, just from thinking about it.  
  
And then he's there, standing at the closed door. He turns the handle as quietly as he has ever managed in his life. The room is pitch-black, murky in shadow, so he lingers in the doorway and lets his eyes adjust. There is the bed, huge as ever, and as he starts to see better, he makes out the form of the piled blankets and sheets on it, the array of pillows, and there he is: a shining blond head, turned away from him, and a gentle rise and fall of a bare, moonlight-pale back. Trowa clenches and unclenches his fists. He watches breaths draw in and out of that slim body and finds himself mimicking their tempo, matching their beats. He usually stands like this for a while, waiting for some unconscious cue to draw him to the bed, because truth be told, some part of him is always terrified he is not welcome here.  
  
But something unexpected happens today. Maybe he was too loud coming in, maybe a panel in the floor creaked and he just didn't notice, because that delicate spine arches into a stretch, and suddenly, Quatre is turning to look at him beneath sleep-heavy eyelids.  
  
“Trowa,” he says, without a hint of surprise.   
  
If he  _were_  an intruder, Trowa reasons, Quatre would not be so calm. He pretends he isn't trying to reassure himself.  
  
Quatre turns toward him, blinking sleep out of his eyes, and suddenly the bed looks too big with only him in it. Trowa wants to fill it, slide up beside Quatre and cancel out all the negative space, but he waits. He needs a sign, something from him, because the key and the standing invitation isn't enough, somehow. It isn't enough.  
  
Sometimes, that sign is a smile, the way Quatre bites his lower lip when he really wants him, when he's starving for it. Sometimes, it's a command, when  _shut the door_  actually means  _pound me through the mattress_. On one very memorable occasion, Quatre took a running leap at him and threw his legs around Trowa's waist; they had ended up fucking right there on the floor.  
  
Today, though, it's a sentence, three little words, exhaled like a breath Quatre has been holding for weeks.  
  
“I missed you.”  
  
Trowa strides to the bed and reaches it just as Quatre rises to his knees, just as his lips begin to part, maybe to say something, but Trowa catches them too quickly. Quatre ends up moaning into his mouth, words tangling on Trowa's tongue. He grabs Quatre's face with both hands, like he's afraid he's going to escape, and works his lips apart, pulls one between his teeth and bites gently down, and it feels so good that he's suddenly aware of the marks he'll be leaving on Quatre today, the places where he can bite and need not be so gentle-- there's a spot on Quatre's neck that makes his breath hitch when Trowa sucks the skin there, maybe that's where he'll start-- and he's immediately hard inside his pants, his heart racing.  
  
Quatre slides narrow hands up his back, his fingers pulling at the fabric of Trowa's shirt. They migrate to his chest, tracing the shape of his muscles, then up and around his neck, tangling in his hair. He pulls Trowa's head gently to the side, changing the angle of their kiss, and slides his tongue between Trowa's lips, searching out his.  
  
The first time Quatre kissed him was in a hotel room the night before New Edwards. Trowa had been wondering just what it was about the boy that trumped directive, that made him agree to work together with a stranger for the first time in his life, and then Quatre had sat next to him on the bed and pressed their lips together, and Trowa had thought:  _oh, that's what it is_. The realization had been so simple, but had still turned his world on end. Even now that their lips fit effortlessly together, thousands of kisses to instruct them, that thought is still in the back of his mind.   
  
Quatre moves his hands to the waistband of Trowa's pants and begins to pull Trowa's shirt loose, tugging it up when he's finished, until he has to break the kiss to get it over Trowa's head. It gets thrown to a corner of the bed and Quatre looks him up and down. He smiles a little when he sees how hard Trowa is, bites his lip, flicks his eyes upward to his face. That sea-green gaze catches him, holds him still, and Trowa has the irrational urge to put his hands up in surrender. Then Quatre sinks his hand into Trowa's lap and palms his cock through the fabric, and Trowa sucks in a hard breath and falls to the bed on his ass, because that simple touch feels so damn good, after weeks without this, that he's knocked backwards by it.  
  
Quatre laughs quietly, unfastening Trowa's pants, working the zipper down. His blond head dips to press a kiss to the edge of Trowa's pectoral muscle, the outline of his collarbone. He swipes his tongue along the curve of Trowa's adam's apple, palming the muscles of his stomach. Trowa curls a hand into Quatre's soft, tousled hair, because he knows what comes next, and he's probably going to need a handhold if he doesn't intend to come instantly.  
  
Sure enough, Quatre slips his fingers under the elastic of Trowa's boxers and grabs his cock, holding it firm, pulling it out like a kid who just found a hidden present. Those big green eyes flicker upwards, as if asking for permission, and whatever Quatre sees on his face seems to give it, because he presses his lips to the head of Trowa's cock, where it's already starting to drip, and slowly opens his mouth, begins to slide it to the back of his throat. Trowa makes a noise he would be embarrassed about, were he with anyone else, and tightens his grip in Quatre's hair, letting that easy slide past his tongue, past the soft pressure of his lips, dictate his breath, his entire nervous system. He wants to pump himself into that sweet little mouth, fuck Quatre's face until he comes-- which won't take long, the way this feels-- but he keeps still, until Quatre's nose is tickling the hair at the base of his cock. He'll let Quatre blow him the way he wants, because he's so good at it there's no way Trowa's awkward thrusts into his mouth will feel better.  
  
Quatre slides his tongue up the base of his cock, presses it hard against the ridge of the head, right at that sensitive spot on the underside. They were still teenagers when Quatre figured out where he ought to focus on when sucking Trowa's cock to make him come, and Trowa has been at his mercy ever since. Trowa is ostensibly the only person Quatre has ever done this for, but he still has a hard time believing it. He watches Quatre slide his lips back down over the shaft and wonders once again how he could be such a natural cocksucker. Is it even possible? God knows Trowa felt like an amateur the first few times he had attempted the same in return.   
  
Quatre works him enthusiastically, finding a rhythm with his mouth, rolling Trowa's balls gently in his hand, until Trowa is half-collapsed on the bed, propped up on one elbow, holding onto the back of Quatre's head for dear life. Just watching Quatre suck him is getting him dangerously close. Then Quatre moans low in his throat, like he's loving this as much as Trowa is, and the sound reverberating across his cock makes Trowa have to pull out of Quatre's sweet mouth or risk coming that instant. And he needs to be inside Quatre when he comes, he  _needs_  it.  
  
“Enough,” he whispers, and Quatre's pretty mouth curves into a smile for him.   
  
“I was just getting to the good part.”   
  
Trowa reaches for him, catching him around the waist, and throws him back toward the head of the bed, sending him sprawling, laughing, among the pillows.  
  
“This is the good part,” Trowa breathes against his neck.   
  
He finds that spot he'd been thinking about earlier, right under the curve of Quatre's jaw, where the skin is flushed pink and burning hot to the touch. He swipes his tongue across it and Quatre moans and arches into him. Trowa can feel his cock straining against the soft fabric of his pajama pants. He palms it roughly, sinking his teeth into that place on Quatre's neck, hard enough to hurt just a little. When he pulls back, there are marks. Good. He lowers his head to the junction of Quatre's neck and shoulder and bites down, squeezing Quatre's cock hard through his pants.  
  
“ _Fuck_ ,” Quatre cries, clutching at Trowa's back. “The drawer, Trowa.  _Now_.”  
  
There's a bottle Quatre keeps by his bedside, in the drawer in the nightstand, and Trowa goes to retrieve it. Quatre has taught him everything he knows about sex. He had guided Trowa's fingers the first time, showed him how to work him open, like he had known how to do this forever, though he swore Trowa was his first. There had been no question that he was Trowa's first-- he hadn't even known products existed for things like this.   
  
Now, though, he knows exactly what to do. He slicks up his fingers, his cock, groaning a little at the quick jerkoff he gives himself to spread it around. When he turns back to the bed, Quatre is naked, all pink gleaming skin, and he's watching Trowa with a smile that turns devilish when he catches Trowa's gaze. He absently touches himself, biting his lip, putting on a show of impatience for Trowa's benefit.   
  
“Trowa,” he moans, rolling his hand over his cock.  
  
Trowa charges toward Quatre on the bed, and he laughs and retreats to the headboard, wrapping his legs around Trowa's waist when he reaches him, kissing his forehead, his brow. Trowa follows the path of those legs back to Quatre's body, palming his ass with both hands, spreading it to slip his fingers inside. Quatre kisses him deeply, breath short and hard, letting Trowa slick him up, until he's bucking his hips with impatience and fucking himself on Trowa's hand. He's always so easy for him, never hiding his desire, and it's pathetic that that's what gives Trowa reassurance that he really wants him here. Pathetic that Quatre can say he loves him a million times, but it's the way he opens for him, the way he moans when Trowa touches him like this, that makes him believe it.  
  
Trowa pulls his fingers out and hitches Quatre's legs a little higher, holding him tight around the waist. He lifts Quatre off the bed, leaning him against the wall, and Quatre wraps his arms around his back and lets Trowa support him. Trowa nudges his cock against Quatre's ass, gets himself into position. There is little resistance when he pushes himself inside. He slides in so easily, so naturally, like they were made to fit together like this. Quatre sighs in his ear, digging hard into his back, and the sound only makes him slide himself in further, until he's as deep as he can go, legs shaking a little from the sensation. Quatre is so tight, so warm, it's all Trowa can do to steady himself for a moment, taking shallow, panting breaths, the scent of Quatre's sleep-mussed hair filling him.  
  
When he was younger, a nameless boy in a mercenary troop, he thought sex was pointless, could never understand why the men around him talked about it so much. Until he met Quatre, it had never really been on his mind. But now, as he begins to make shallow thrusts, each one drawing a sweet little sigh from Quatre's lips, he feels like he owes those men an apology, because they knew something he didn't. God, how little he knew. This was more than worth talking about. Fucking Quatre was worth devoting his whole life to.  
  
He takes his time as much as he can, though he feels shaken to the core, barely holding on to his control. Quatre's hands are in his hair, squeezing hard into his shoulders, taking fistfuls of the sheets. His eyes are shut beneath long blond lashes, his brow furrowed like he's worried he might not survive how good this feels. He trembles around Trowa's cock, taking him as deep as he can go.  
  
“Quatre,” he says, or cries, or screams. He isn't sure anymore.   
  
“Trowa, God, please, please...”  
  
“Kiss me.”  
  
And Quatre does, so obedient, his mouth warm and wet for him, it tears him to pieces.  _He loves me_ , Trowa thinks.  _God knows why, but he really loves me_.   
  
Quatre's orgasm is coaxed out of him with a confident hand wrapped around his cock, and he arches upward almost violently, arms locked around Trowa's neck, biting his lip so hard Trowa worries he might draw blood. He's always quiet when he comes, like the shock of pleasure has sucked the words right out of him. Trowa realizes he has about thirty seconds left in him, maybe less if he thinks too long about how fucking amazing Quatre looks writhing in ecstacy. He plants a fevered kiss to that pale forehead and drives himself into that overwhelming warmth with increasing ferocity, all his instincts screaming at him to fuck Quatre through the mattress.   
  
He works his hips like a piston, thrusting in before pulling almost entirely out, his entire body trembling with the last remaining remnants of his control. Then, that final push, and he can't take anymore, he's coming with terrifying intensity, and it's all he can do to growl out Quatre's name between clenched teeth as he rocks in the waves of pleasure drowning his consciousness. He's vaguely aware of fingers drawing through his hair, of kisses pressed to his closed eyelids, but he's barely able to breathe, let alone respond in kind. His heart beats so furiously in his chest he is afraid it might burst, and right now, that seems a strangely beautiful thought, to die here, in the arms of the love of his short and inconsequential life.   
  
Eventually, when his arms and legs are no longer jelly, and opening his eyes no longer results in seeing stars, he pushes gently off of Quatre and slides, exhausted, onto the bedsheets alongside him. Quatre lies down on his side, facing him, giving him an amused little smile beneath the flush of his cheeks.  
  
“That's not a bad way to be woken up,” he chuckles.  
  
Trowa gives him a weak smile, thinking about his bag out in the hallway. He's suddenly anxious again, because whatever happens now, it will never be exactly like it is right this second. He wishes he could freeze time, or rewind it and relive the last thirty minutes over again, but he knows he has to say what he has come all this way, travelled 36 goddamn hours and crossed hundreds of thousands of miles, to say.  
  
“You didn't tell me you were coming.”  
  
“Sorry.”   
  
He's too nervous to say more. Despite himself, he can feel his heart beginning to pound again. Can he really ask this from Quatre? What if he's made some kind of mistake? What if he's wrong about everything?  
  
Quatre stretches, movements languid, and reaches for Trowa's hand, sliding their fingers together.  
  
“Don't be. I'll take the day off work, we'll go do something...”   
  
He slides up the length of Trowa's body, propping himself up on elbows to look down at him.  
  
“When do you have to go back to the circus?”  
  
Mercifully, Quatre punctuates this with a kiss, which Trowa hangs onto like a lifeline. This is it. He has to say it. There are bags in the hallway, a flute in its case, where it belongs, next to the violin. And he's come all this way because, it turns out, he belongs here too. And if Quatre won't have him, he'll probably wander the L-4 streets for the rest of his life, because he can never go back now that he's acknowledged he can't live without this.  
  
He thinks about Quatre's face, awash in ecstacy, the way he said he missed him. He thinks about that stupid keycard that he left with his coat at the door.   
  
Quatre pulls away from the kiss and looks at him in expectation. He has to say it.  
  
“I left the circus.”  
  
Quatre's pale eyebrows shoot up into his bangs.  
  
“What?”  
  
Trowa makes a motion to sit up, and Quatre lets him, and ends up halfway in his lap, with some inscrutable expression on his face.  
  
“You left the circus?” he repeats, when Trowa has lost his nerve again.  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“For good?”  
  
He nods and finally decides to go for broke, God help him.  
  
“I... need a place to stay.”  
  
For a moment, Quatre looks either like he wants to hit him or cry. Then, he throws his arms around Trowa's neck and sends them tumbling back into the pillows.  
  
Trowa's heart beats so fast he knows Quatre must hear it. For a long time, they are both silent, though Trowa's mind swirls with hope, and he is afraid to be the first to speak, lest he break the spell they both seem to be under.  
  
Finally, Quatre rises, peering at him with dangerously bright eyes.  
  
“What took you so damn long?”  
  
Trowa lets out a breath like he's taken a punch and grabs for Quatre, pulls him down to capture his mouth. He can't begin to find the words to express the way he feels, so he tries to let his kiss do the talking for him. Quatre threads fingers tightly in his hair, legs wrapping around his waist, and when he pulls away, he's blinking hard in a way that delicately shatters Trowa's heart.  
  
“You can't take this back, you know,” Quatre whispers, his voice suddenly serious. Nervous. “I won't let you go once I have you for good.”  
  
Trowa laughs. Isn't it obvious?  
  
“You already have me for good.”   
  
Quatre smiles and it's perfect, he's perfect. He's the best thing that's ever happened to him. What  _did_  take him so damn long?  
  
“Well, in that case,” he says, fingers splaying across Trowa's back, “I think I'll have you again, right now.”  
  
Trowa grins, and pulls Quatre to him, and they lose themselves in each other once more.  
  
There will be time, later, when they are both too spent for sex, when Quatre has insisted on calling out of work, to put away his meager belongings, hang his coat in a closet somewhere, find a home for the things he's brought with him. Time to figure out what to do with the rest of his life, now that the most important part is taken care of, the only part that mattered at all. This is where he belongs, beside Quatre, this is his home.  
  
And if, like Quatre says, he's stuck for good, he supposes he'd better get used to it.


End file.
